Chapter 10

The moment I was thrown into the cell, a bone-chilling coldness seeped into my skin, and the metallic taste of fear lingered in my mouth. I was just a boy, barely fourteen, but my crime had painted a target on my back that not even the most hardened zeks could ignore. I had killed an omega and, worse, her unborn child. The guilt of it clung to me like a second skin, a constant reminder of the monster I had become.

The cell was cramped, the air thick with the musk of unwashed bodies and desperation. My bunkmate was a man named Ivan Petrovich, a lifer with a reputation that made even the toughest bratok think twice before crossing him. He was a bear of a man, with a shaved head and eyes that seemed to see right through you. His scent, pine and black pepper, was refreshing to the filth that surrounded us.

“You’re the kid who killed the omega,” Ivan said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to echo off the concrete walls. I nodded, meeting his gaze briefly before looking away. I expected anger, disgust, but instead, I saw a flicker of understanding in his dark eyes.

“Look at me, moy malen’kiy volk,” Ivan commanded, and I found myself unable to disobey. “You did what you had to do to survive. Here, in this shithole, that’s all that matters. You understand me?”

I nodded again, the lump in my throat making it impossible to speak. Ivan grunted in approval, his stern gaze softening just a touch. “Good. Now, you listen to me, and you do exactly as I say. You’re under my protection now.”

Under Ivan’s tutelage, I learned how to navigate the treacherous waters of prison life. I learned how to fight, how to use my fists and my wits to survive. I learned that in this place, weakness was a death sentence. And I learned that even in the darkest of places, there were men like Ivan, men who could teach you how to hold onto your humanity, even when everything around you seemed intent on stripping it away.

“Pain is temporary, Pietro,” Ivan would tell me as he patched up the cuts and bruises that seemed to be a constant part of my existence in those early days. “But respect, respect is forever. Earn their fear, but never forget who you are.”

It wasn’t long before I earned my first tattoo, a single red rose wrapped in chains, inked into the skin of my forearm. It was a brutal initiation, the pain searing into my very soul as the needle moved across my skin. But it was a badge of honor, a symbol of my survival, of the boy I had been and the man I was becoming.

“You’ve done well, Pietro,” Ivan said, clapping me on the back as he inspected the fresh ink. “But remember, every rose has its thorns. You carry this mark, you carry the burden of what it means. You carry it with pride, but never forget the weight of it.”

As the months turned into years, I grew stronger and more ruthless. I learned to navigate the politics of the prison, to forge alliances and break them just as easily. I learned to listen, to watch, to wait for the perfect moment to strike. And through it all, Ivan was there, a constant presence in my life, guiding me, shaping me into the man I would one day become.

“Ivan,” I said one night as we sat in the dimly lit cell, the sounds of the prison surrounding us like a living thing. “When I get out of here, I’m going to make something of myself. I’m going to be somebody.”

Ivan chuckled, the sound was rich with amusement. “Oh, moy malen’kiy volk, you already are somebody. You’re a survivor. And in this world, that’s the most powerful man of all.”

For years, Ivan and I shared that tiny piece of hell they called a cell. He was more than just a roommate; he was a mentor, a surrogate father. We had long since stopped being just zeks, just prisoners. We were something more, something that not even the guards could take away from us.

“Brigadier,” Ivan would say, his voice a gravelly whisper in the darkness of our cell. “That’s what my nephew, Yuri, is now. He escaped this cursed country and made a name for himself with the bratva in the States. He’s got power, respect. More than any zek could ever hope for.”

I listened to his stories with a hunger that gnawed at my insides, a dream of a life beyond these walls, beyond the reach of the guards and their batons. The USA seemed like a distant fantasy, a land where a man could be more than just his past, where an ex-con could start anew.

“I want that, Ivan,” I confessed one night, my voice barely above a whisper. “I want to stand on my own two feet, to be free.”

Ivan’s gaze was thoughtful as he studied me in the dim light. “You’ve got the fire in you, Pietro. The States… it’s a place where a man can rise, or fall spectacularly. You have to be ready for that.”

I nodded, the seeds of determination taking root in my heart. “I’m ready, Ivan. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

The bond between us grew stronger with each passing day. We were two lost souls in a sea of despair, clinging to each other for survival. Ivan taught me how to play chess, and we’d spend hours hunched over the worn wooden board, the pieces clacking together like the sound of fate knocking on our door.

“Remember, volk,” Ivan would say, using the Russian slang for ‘wolf,’ a nod to my surname, “the pawn can become a queen. It’s all about the moves you make.”

But for all our camaraderie, the toll of our imprisonment was etched into our very bones. The sounds of the other zeks—their screams, their sobs—were a constant reminder of where we were, of what we had become. The isolation, the monotony, the constant threat of violence… it wore away at us, chipping away piece by piece until there was nothing left but the raw, pulsing need to be free.

“Sometimes, I wonder if there’s anything left of us outside these walls,” I admitted to Ivan one night, the weight of our decade-long imprisonment pressing down on me like the bars of our cell.

Ivan’s response was a long time coming. “There’s more to us than these walls, Pietro. We just have to hold on long enough to see it.”

And hold on we did, through the mind-numbing routine, through the cold and the hunger and the fear. We held on because that was all we could do. We held on because we had dreams of a future that didn’t include iron bars and the oppressive gaze of our captors.

“One day, Ivan,” I vowed, my voice steady and full of conviction, “we’ll breathe free air. And when we do, I swear, I’ll make you proud.”